


Firebird

by zetsubooty



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dancing, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Prince!Victor, Slow Burn, Witchcraft, a lot of it, flirtatious games of tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubooty/pseuds/zetsubooty
Summary: Yuuri watches his advance with a poised readiness, head tilted to show the flash of crimson against his throat and the black and silver collar. Caught up in this vision of a man, Victor barely pays attention to his own body as he rides the syncopated pull of the music to each punctuation of clapped hands or stomped foot. And then, eyes never leaving Victor’s, Yuuri chases him back across the floor, steps an unerring echo of Victor’s own.Back and forth, advance and retreat and slipping past each other near enough that the wind of Yuuri’s passing teases over his shoulder blades. And yet they never touch, all the more intimate for its lack, for the heightened anticipation pricked alive under Victor’s skin.Victor remembers well wearing that black damask coat, its silken slide under his fingertips. How different would it feel with another’s quickened body underneath?They say that in his youth, the Prince rode out to meet the deadly Firebird on a snow-blanketed field and stole from her that which she cannot forgive. They say many things of the Prince, whisper that his heart is grown cold and his eyes gone weary and dull. Perhaps the Firebird stole something of his as well.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmykay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/gifts).



> this is 80% written I promise I just suck

Victor clasps the hands of yet another congratulatory boyar’s wife and smiles. He makes it warm and sincere, lets his eyes almost close with a tip of the head, and then flicks them to hers as if sharing a private joke. Then turns away before the expression can sag.

Normally, these evenings are pleasant enough, a delight for the senses if nothing else--candles filling the hall with the ostentatious scent of beeswax and their cozy light, the soft murmur of voices joined into a rich swell like distant waves overlaid with soft foreign music. Warm food in his belly and no small amount of expensive imported wine--the Plisetsky family has always had artfully cosmopolitan tastes--turning his head fuzzy and the gowns and coats of the attendees into a kaleidoscope of colour and form. And yet none of it lifts the unaccustomed melancholy thick in his chest, he longs only for the moment when he can retreat to privacy and quiet.

Curiousity draws him closer to the end of the room where the two musicians kneel on the floor. From this angle, he can only see one of their faces, the young man with the reed of a heavy-looking woodwind between his lips; his eyes sparkle with good humour and his dark brows quirk expressively as he watches his partner, but he does not arrest Victor’s attention quite the way the other does.

He bends subtly over his stringed instrument, creating an odd feeling of privacy that only seems to admit his partner. His hair lays feathery against his nape, short and enviably thick and coolly glossy in the candlelight. The sleeve of his plain shirt is shoved up to his elbow, revealing a toned forearm as he flicks the plectrum confidently over the strings. Victor shifts over, trying to get a look at his face.

“The lady’s taste is far too sophisticated for me; I’m afraid her new pets are upsetting my digestion.”

Victor turns with a tense smile to find an elderly colonel addressing him. Not someone he cares to humour by laughing.

The man bows low. “So good to have you back, your Serene Highness. Your parents would be so proud, may god rest their souls.”

_ Would they? _

Victor smiles blithely anyway, thanking the man.

Behind him, a light tenor rings out, “Yuuri,” continuing in an unfamiliar tongue. Victor starts to turn but catches the eye of the evening’s hostess on him. Brightening his expression, he threads his way to her side. It isn’t her fault he’s miserable here.

“Your Highness will accompany me in leading the first dance?”

He bows over her hand, taking the opportunity to glance back. But the two musicians have already been replaced by a more familiar rank of strings, servants scrambling to set out chairs for them.

He puts it out of his mind, smiling more genuinely as he rises. “It would be an honour to dance with the crown jewel of the Plisetsky family.” Her answering smile is kindly, almost as if she can see past into his true heart. It irks him, but he doesn’t let it show on his face, just guides her to the head of the hall as the musicians tune. Other pairs join up in line with them, and the musicians heave into a bassadance, elegant and dreadfully dull.

Victor schools his expression, glancing over at the lady as they glide forward. “A fine evening.”

She inclines her head in thanks. “It is but a small offering. We are all overjoyed to finally have our country’s brightest son returned to us.”

“And I, to be home. And in one piece.” The music swings them away from each other and into a modest cadence step that makes him ache to use his muscles properly.

“I had no doubt of it. You were always handy with blade and flintlock.”

His turn to tip his head in polite acknowledgement. Nothing polite about the gunpowder flash behind his eyelids as he blinks, the recollection of sickening rust thick on his tongue for a brief second.

“Oh, that reminds me! My son has missed your attentions these past few years. All the young men have.”

He stiffens and searches her face for any malice, any hidden implication. But she seems only sincere. “Where is Yuratchka? I have not seen him since supper.”

She pulls a face. “Run off somewhere; he’s not much for crowds. These days, he has little use for anyone besides his grandfather. At least he still listens to  _ him _ .” She presents her hand for the last repeat of the melody, sighing. “Would that  _ I  _ were allowed such an undisciplined self.”

Victor grimaces sympathetically. He can well imagine the kind of young man the serious boy he’d chased around the yard with wooden foils might have grown into. “We can forgive him. After all, we all were like that, once upon a time.”

She smiles, cruelty at the edge of the expression reminiscent of her son. “...And as we will all have visited upon us in turn.” She pins him with a keen look. “Your Highness should be thinking of such things. Especially with your parents gone, it is well and time that we secured an heir. You are no longer young.”

He wouldn’t tolerate such a comment from most people. But he has to admit she’s right, even if the words leave him feeling more trapped than he’d ever been in that ditch with his boots soaked stiff with another’s blood. But though the front is a distant ugliness and the lands around them peaceful, he can’t predict what might happen were he to die heirless.

_ Then again, at that point, it wouldn’t be my problem anymore. _

He tilts his chin, expression too bitter for a real smile. “You may rest assured, the question weighs heavy on my conscience.”

“Come, now. You are royal, handsome, and now a decorated hero.” She flicks the gold braid on his claret coat as they cross one last time. “There will be no shortage of maidens who would leap at the chance to be your queen. You need only choose.”

“I am sure you are right,” he says with false lightness, bowing over her hand as the music closes. At least the courante following will likely prohibit more conversation.

The livelier dance lifts his spirits somewhat, but as soon as the music ends, he makes the excuse that he wants to check on Makkachin and slips away, dodging several hopeful looks as he makes his way to the back of the hall. And then out, out, the noise and the heat fading away until he finally sets his hands on a door and pushes into the quiet of the garden.

Early autumn chill touches the air, though the fragrance of flowers still lingers. The sky’s rim blazes with a dying sunset, the first stars picking holes in the darkness. He’d missed seeing them hemmed in by buildings, missed the subtle undercurrent of human life humming all around, even this far into the country. Victor stretches his arms above his head with a happy groan, his coat pulling tight over his chest.

The only thing marring the beauty of the evening is the young man yowling angrily from off to his left, accompanied by familiar and cheerful barking.

“How dare you even  _ touch _ him, pig-boy? D’you have the slightest idea whose hound you’re--”

“Yuri!” Both young men whip around to look at him; with a jolt, Victor recognises the musician who had so arrested him earlier. Makkachin bounds around his legs, breaking his focus. “You’ve gotten louder since last I saw you. Still almost as small, though.” He slaps Yuri’s back affectionately.

“And  _ you’re _ just as obnoxious as ever.” Yuri rounds on him with his arms folded across his slight chest. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Needed a breath of fresh air.” Victor beams down at Makkachin, who hops and crouches eagerly before tripping over to the unnamed musician. Utterly indifferent to Yuri’s outraged glare, the man scruffs Makkachin’s cheeks and ears. “Though it seems as though it’s doing  _ you _ little good. Perhaps a quick dunk in the rain barrel? I believe you’ll still fit nicely.”

“Shut up, old bastard! I haven’t missed you one bit.” Yuri backs away, as though not entirely certain how serious Victor’s threat is. He scowls down at the other man. “ _ You _ have work to attend to, surely.” Without another word, he stalks back towards the manor.

Which leaves Victor to examine the man now happily rubbing Makkachin’s belly.

“He likes you.”

The musician looks up, seeming a bit sheepish. “He’s your dog? He’s lovely.” Even in the shadows, there’s a foreignness to his features that shouldn’t surprise Victor but serves as one more thing drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

He makes himself stop staring. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh! Uh.” He hunches, talking to Makkachin as if shy. “Mostly, they just call me ‘boy’, or,” he wrinkles his nose, “what the young master said.”

Victor snickers into his fist. “Yuri has never been delicate with his words. But surely, you must have a name?”

“It’s Yuuri.”

The same name, and yet rendered utterly different, a strangeness to the emphasis and the flip of the r.

He has to laugh again. “I see now why he won’t call you that. He doesn’t share his things well.”

“It was mine first,” Yuuri says with a smile, honey on a barbed point to draw more laughter from Victor.

He finally gives in to temptation and crouches down across from him, thumping Makkachin’s side affectionately. “I don’t recall seeing you before.”

Yuuri straightens the front of his shirt self-consciously. “Well, most of the time, me and Phichit are taking care of the animals, so I doubt you would have.” Victor keeps his eyes on Makkachin but he can feel Yuuri’s eyes on him; he wonders what colour they are. “I haven’t seen you before either.”

“I’ve been away at war. Just returned home a few weeks back.”

“Oh, with the prince?”

Victor takes a split second to understand, and then has to bury his face in Makkachin’s shoulder to keep from laughing. “Yes, exactly.”

Yuuri hums thoughtfully and sits back on his heels. “The people here love their prince very much. Even in his absence, we heard many wonderful stories about him.”

“Don’t believe all of them.” There’s more than a touch of bitterness in his tone.

But Yuuri continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve been learning some of the songs. Here,” his eyes slip shut as he tips his head back and sings, in a clear, low tenor,

_ The Firebird sings by night, _

_ Come to steal the golden apple, _

_ Her tail a shooting star, her wings alight-- _

“Yes, yes, I’m  _ quite  _ familiar.” Part of him was tempted to let him continue; it’s not the most beautiful voice, but… The music seemed more alive on Yuuri’s tongue, somehow.

“You’re not fond of the prince?” Yuuri seems awfully disapproving for someone with no frame of reference.

“Mostly, I am. Not always.”

“He’s said to be a man of great skill and bravery. It must have been an honour to serve under him.”

“It must have. He’s a fine warrior, if I say so myself. Though I don’t know about brave.” He tilts his head, considering. “Would  _ you _ enjoy serving under him?”

If Yuuri’s aware of the insinuation in his tone, he doesn’t show it. “I’m no soldier.” A flash of iron and ego under his soft features. “But I’m a fair athlete!”

Victor can’t help glancing down at his pants stretching over the curves of his quads, the glimpse of his forearms at the wrist. There’s a pleasing squishiness to Yuuri, but he doesn’t doubt his word.

He swallows, pushing down thoughts about the deft, confident movements of Yuuri’s hands. “Is that so? Then what say you to a race?”

Yuuri blanches. “Ah, well, I’m not the fleetest of--”

Victor clasps his shoulder. “Oh, come, come, where’s your pride now? Besides,” he pushes to his feet with an exaggerated groan, “I’ve been sitting on my ass since we got back, and weeks in the saddles before that. I’m not exactly in top form, myself.” Excitement fizzes in his chest as he points. “To the pear tree?”

Yuuri nods, on the edge of a grin and light catching in his eyes, and when Victor takes up a starting crouch, so does he.

“On my mark...get set... _ go! _ ”

They dash across the cool grass, Makkachin bounding between them. Victor’s quite certain his legs are longer, but he’s also painfully aware of the tightness at his side and his recent inactivity. Too many long hours stuck signing Yakov’s unending papers and performing appropriately restrained grief. Still, Victor’s the one who crashes into the tree’s narrow trunk first, laughing as he swings around it to take in Yuuri’s grin as he skids to a stop.

“You’ve beat me, fair and square.” Yuuri’s words are respectful but his tone is not, carries a breathless edge that says  _ next time, I’ll beat you for sure _ , and Victor laps it up greedily.

“No, it was an unfair start. You count us off this time.”

Yuuri nods sharply. “This time, the juniper!” Rather than counting down, he takes off.

“Oi!” Victor launches after him. “Makkachin, stop that scoundrel!”

Makkachin streaks past him, leaping for Yuuri’s back and slashing worry through Victor. But Yuuri hits the ground rolling and laughing, Makkachin licking his face and pawing at him in delight. Makkachin looks up at Victor as if to say  _ I caught one for you, _ giving little excited hops that make Yuuri grunt at the weight.

_ It’s never that easy, old friend. _ Victor scrubs at his curly pelt. “Come on, you oaf, get off him.” He extends his hand to Yuuri. “Well,  _ that _ was unfair, too.”

Yuuri grabs his forearm solidly, rolling to his feet. “I’m not so weak that I need you to take pity on me.”

Victor grins back at him fiercely, not letting go of his arm. “So show me.”

He’s probably fooling himself, but he thinks, he  _ thinks _ Yuuri’s cheeks colour. Before he can be certain, Yuuri rips out of his grip and dashes away. Makkachin circles Victor’s feet once before shooting after him.

There’s no goal in mind now except chasing Yuuri. Which proves more challenging than he’d expected: Yuuri darts about like a fish in a stream, spinning quickly on the ball of his foot and launching in a new direction. It’s nothing Victor can’t keep up with, but it’s bliss, a rush he hasn’t felt since heading home but with none of the terror sour in his gut. He finds himself holding back, staying just close enough to keep up the game but leaving enough distance so he can watch the way Yuuri moves in the growing moonlight. Victor can almost hear music, something wilder than anything Yuuri played earlier. Graceful and vibrant and lifting Victor’s heart and quickening his breath and tugging at the sinews of his legs and arms until he’s running as if tumbling, laughter at the edge of his breath and fizzing down his arms. Unbidden, his hand comes up, reaches, and he catches hold of the back of Yuuri’s shirt with a triumphant crow.

With his own laughter spilling out messily, Yuuri turns, not away but in, into the curl of Victor’s arm. Their momentum still carries them forward, so he lets it, lets them twist and tumble off balance until the ground crashes against his shoulder and Yuuri smacks face-first into his chest. He’s surely gotten a thick fresh smudge of dirt up the back of his new coat, but who can fault him, who, with this gorgeous young man rising above him, rubbing his bumped nose and half-covering his goofy smile.

Victor still hasn’t let go of his shirt. He doesn’t particularly care to.

Yuuri plants one hand on the grass inside the curve of Victor’s shoulder, close enough he can feel its heat radiating against his neck. His stomach and hips press down against Victor, one leg slipping down between his knees.

“Sorry, I…” Yuuri smells faintly of sweet hay.

“Victor!”

The old man’s voice booms across the garden; normally, a friendly sound, but it spikes resentment through Victor. They scramble to their feet like guilty children. Victor dusts off the back of his coat, taking a step towards the advancing Plisetsky patriarch.

“Your most Serene Highness, they are looking for you indoors.” Nikolai comes to a stop at the bottom of the shallow steps, his arms folded across his broad chest, his formality clearly a rebuke.

He has the selfish urge to refuse, to pretend he hadn’t heard. Wanting to stall, he looks over at his new friend.

Who is gone.

Not gone, just dropped to his knees, face to the grass. Makkachin snuffs his head concernedly.

“Your Highness, I...I didn’t know…”

Victor’s chest fills with a deep icy weariness. “Didn’t know? Did you mistake me for a pig-boy like yourself?” He hates himself for the sharp words and the mocking tone, for the way Yuuri flinches.

Nikolai walks up behind him. “Is our man causing trouble for you?”

“None.” He sweeps it all off with a dismissive wave. “None at all.” Collecting himself, he turns back to Nikolai with a smile. “I will return.”

The old man nods curtly with a tight smile. “Good. Your subjects need to see you now more than ever.”

“They’re not my subjects yet,” he replies, maintaining eye contact until the old man turns away. He follows him across the garden, only glancing back once to see Yuuri, still kneeling in the grass with one arm slung around Makkachin’s neck, his expression closed and quiet.

* * *

 

“Yuuri!” Phichit beckons him over to where he’s crouched against the wall of an outbuilding. “Help me shell these peas.”

“How’d you get landed with this again?”

Phichit beams at him good-naturedly. “I kinda like doing it. Soooooo… I heard something interesting from the girls in the kitchen.”

Yuuri huffs out a quick laugh. “I’m sure you did.”

“It’s about,” Phichit pauses dramatically, “your prince.”

Yuuri swats at Phichit’s knee, dropping his head back against the wall. He’s glad of the sun-warmed wood in the growing chill. “He’s  _ not _ my prince, don’t--”

“He  _ definitely _ is. Anyway. One of the girls said when she was in town for market, there was this big announcement--they’re holding a contest to see who can best surprise the crown prince.”

Yuuri stares at him. “What does that even mean? And what’s that got to do with me?”

“I dunno exactly, but I think that’s part of the point. You just go and do whatever you do best, and hope it catches his fancy. There’s a reward, a big one.”

“I guess that’d be useful for getting us out of this weird crap backwater you dragged us out to before it freezes over again.” If there’s more than a little malice in his smile, he feels it’s not undeserved.

“Yuuuuuuri! I’m sorry about all that. But you gotta think  _ bigger! _ ” Phichit leans towards him, eyes lighting up. “You already have his eye. Maybe he’d make you part of his court!”

“How, exactly, do I have his eye? I talked to him. Briefly. Months ago.” Yuuri drops a handful of pods, burying his head in his hands with a groan. “If anything, he’ll remember me as the dumb rude foreigner who didn’t know he was the prince.”

“Oh, I think he’ll remember you. I saw you two.”

“ _ What?! _ ” Judging by Phichit’s smug expression, he’s been just  _ waiting _ for the perfect moment to drop that. Yuuri doesn't want to examine the squirmy embarrassment twisting in his stomach.

The next second, Phichit’s all big eyes and innocence. “You guys looked like you were having so much fun! You left out some  _ really _ juicy details when you told me about it.”

“There  _ weren’t _ any juicy--”

“...like how you almost kissed him.”

“What?” Yuuri grabs at his hair, writhing with embarrassment.  “ _ When _ did I-- I did  _ not _ kiss the--” He registers that he’s almost yelling, and drops to a whisper. “I  _ didn’t _ almost kiss  _ anybody. _ ”

Phichit chuckles, but seems to sense it’s time to back off. “My point is, he’ll remember you. And if not, you can definitely put on a show that’ll win!”

“I’ll...think about it.” Yuuri hunches over the pot, grabbing another handful of peas, then drops them to chafe his fingers.

“Yuuri..." Phichit sighs huffily. "You’re going up to see the Nishigoris soon, aren’t you?”

He’s relieved to change the subject. “Mm-hm. Been a while since I asked for news of home.”

“Ask Yuuko-chan! She’ll agree with me.”

“All the more reason not to ask her,” he grouses, chucking an empty pod at Phichit.

The walk into town gives him far too much time to think things over. Not that there  _ is _ anything to think over. He supposes Phichit’s right: if he could capture the Prince’s interest, it would be a step up in the world, something closer to what he’d imagined all those years ago when he left home. Maybe then he could return without feeling like he’d let everyone down.

Yuuri stares down at his hands, at the calluses on his left fingers.  _ What was I even chasing? _ When he tries to envision a goal, it won’t resolve into a clear picture.  _ Phichit’s content simply to create beauty and share that with others. But I want something more. Something I’ll want to reach out and grab with both hands. _

He curls his hands into fists for a moment, then sighs, shaking them out and adjusting the pack on his back. Bigger questions than he’ll be able to answer before he makes it to town.

When he arrives at their back door, Yuuri doesn’t bother knocking; he’s sure one of the girls has already spied him from a window, anyway. He lets himself in with a loud greeting, already hearing the thump of little feet on the stairs.

“Mom! Yuuri’s here!”

“I can hear!” Yuuko ducks around the entrance to the shopfront, smiling broadly. “Yuuri!”

He’s always a little overwhelmed by the warmth of her welcome. “Hi, Yuuko-chan.” Her smile lights afresh at the small touch of home.

“Yuuri! Didja see any new horses?”

“Your shirt has a hole in it!”

“Come for a spell this time?”

“Girls!” Yuuko claps her hands, expression turning apologetic. “Sorry, they’re always so nosy…”

He waves his hands. “Don’t worry about it. Ah, how have things been?”

“Before that, did you bring it?” She pokes at the pack dangling off his shoulder.

“Mm-hm!” Yuuri sets it on the table with a light thump.

Yuuko pulls the cleaned deer bone out, checking that he’s prepared it correctly, then casts it into the fire and turns back with a smile.

It’s been longer than usual, but they still fall into easy conversation, the triplets interjecting from time to time before running back upstairs on important six year old business. The kitchen is warm, the modest hearth fire more than enough to banish the encroaching frost, and the space is redolent of cooking and the herbs hanging from the rafters to dry.

Yuuko sets him to work winding up a skein of deep maroon yarn. The longer he stares at the rich colour, the more his mind keeps slipping off their conversation and conjuring the feel of velvet against his palm, his cheek, the flash of gold buttons and silver hair, and some unnameable draw, some wonder unfurling even now in his chest, like he had seen something truly magical.

He feels flushed, and he’s sure it’s not just the fire. Swallowing hard, he looks up. “I met a prince?”

Yuuko drops the ladle she’d been stirring a soup with. “You wait until now to tell me? You mean  _ the _ prince?”

“I don’t know that there  _ are _ any others arou--”

Axel, Lutz, and Loop spring up seemingly from nowhere. “Did he have a sword?”

“Did he boss everybody around?”

“Was he handsome?”

Yuuri recoils. “Uh...I don’t think people usually bring swords to parties. He was...odd. Not what I expected.” He dips his head with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t even realise he was a prince until someone told me, just thought he was a fancy nobleman.”

Yuuko leans in. “But  _ was _ he handsome?”

“Mama, you’ve seen him yourself!”

“That was from far away! I couldn’t properly appreciate him.”

“Mom, you’re only s'posed to think  _ Dad’s _ handsome, anyway!”

“Well…”

Yuuri can feel their expectation weighing on him, and he regrets mentioning it. Attempting to change the subject, he waves the fat ball of yarn at Yuuko. “Is  _ this  _ one magic?”

She shakes her head. “Just a little something so they don’t lose them. The girls outgrew last year’s hats.”

One of them tugs on the end of the yarn. “Mama, I wanted a  _ green  _ one!”

“This isn’t all the yarn!” she scolds, then turns to give him a shrewd look, poking a finger through the hole in his front. “You should let me make you something.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t--”

“At least let me mend that. Pop upstairs and grab one of Takeshi’s shirts to wear in the meantime.” She takes the yarn from him and waves him off; with a sigh, Yuuri heads upstairs.

When he comes down, Yuuko’s crouched next to the fire, forehead creased in a frown.

The triplets froth around his legs happily, but freeze at their mother’s soft voice.

“Girls, go see if Papa needs help out front.”

“Mom!”

“But we’re still talking to--”

“Now. I’m sure he’s got an errand to send you on.” Her expression gentles. “Don’t forget your coats.

Yuuri waits uneasily while the girls collect their coats and file around to the front of the shop.

“Is the news that bad?”

“Sit down.”

She sets a tarnished and sooty metal tray on the table, then fetches the shoulder blade out of the fire with tongs and lays it on top. Usually, she’s energetic and chatty, but this time, she won’t meet his eyes and her movements drag as she brushes some stray ash off with a corner of her shawl.

“To start with, they’re all alive.”

Yuuri swallows but his mouth is dry. “Was that supposed to be comforting?”

Yuuko ignores him, fingers skimming above the cracks on the still-hot surface of the bone. “Ashes clogging a still pool. This…loss of home. But not complete? There was...there must have been a fire...or there will be, or-- Yuuri, sit down!”

He stares down at her, unable to move, to sit or to tear out of her grip on his wrist. “Your reading could be wrong.” Part accusation, part desperate plea.

Her brows knot unhappily and she shakes her head slowly. “I’m not wrong. Yuuri, I’m sorry…” Releasing his wrist, she covers his hand with her own. He snatches it away as though her touch burned. Yuuko drops eye contact. “What will you do?”

“I can’t stop it, can I?” She shakes her head again. He slumps back down in his seat, head in his hands. "I don't know... I could...I have to go to them, at least, right? If I had...I'm owed wages, if I had that...then at least..."

“Yuuri, what…? How can they not have pai--”

"Nevermind that.  Is there anything more?”

Yuuko shakes herself, looking back at the bone. “Not exactly… A voice, off in the distance…” Her fingers smudge the ash. “Ice throwing back the image of flames…a single heartbeat...”

“Nothing I need to know. I have to go.” He stands, stripping out of his borrowed shirt and pulling his own over his head grimly.

“Will you at least stay and eat something?”

He shakes his head. “Thank you.”

“Yuuri--” She stands, reaching out for him, but he turns away.

As he leaves, he catches sight of three solemn faces in the shadowed doorway into the shop.

He paces the streets in an anxious daze, mind circling round and round on itself. The street opens up into a square, but he barely notices the people he dodges around. Until a stray word brings him up short.

“...what he’s planning for the Prince’s contest, and it’s honestly just embarrassing, but…”

Yuuri snaps around, grabbing the sleeve of the auburn-haired young woman. “The contest. How do you get in?”

“Go up to the palace and ask. They’ll take your name.” She pulls out of his grip. “And don’t make a habit of grabbing strangers.”

He’s already turning away, sprinting towards the center of the city.

_ Hope. Slim, but hope. _

_ I won’t lose. _

_ I can’t. _

**Author's Note:**

> a couple notes bc my nerd ass wants to share:
> 
> The type of fortune-telling Yuuko's using was imported to Japan from China; deer scapula had fallen out of fashion by this time in favour of tortoise shells, but I figure a deer bone might be easier to get your hands on... I'm taking some liberties bc it was usually more of a "yes" "no" "lol ur fucked" kind of answer buT HEY W/E YUUKO'S HELLA MAGICAL
> 
> Court dances from this period were roughly divided into two types: lowkey ones like the bassadance or pavane that were kind of like walking the red carpet but to music, and faster ones such as the courante or galliard, which tended to have a more complex rhythm and involve a lot more hopping around. If you were a Hot Young Thing, you might do la volta in ur galliard, which was a jumpy lift and apparently much too sexy for polite company but in reality it is kind of the most endearingly ridiculous and unsexy thing you have ever seen. Most of these dances originated in Western Europe and spread over the continent; I should really poke around more thoroughly and find out if Russia had its own. I know a bit about folk dancing, but that's not the same...
> 
> The shamisen was another introduction from China by way of Okinawa, right around the time this is set (not that...I know...to within a decade...because this is a fairytale and im keeping things VAGUE... *cries softly*) It's a three-stringed instrument that everything I look at/watch keeps comparing to the banjo and that is Kind Of Unfortunate. (if u wanna hear some cool stuff tho look up the yoshida brothers they play em sometimes) it was (and is) used in theatre but also for feudal Japan's answer to TV news (which predates the shamisen): travelling musicians who would spread news and religious stories/ideology to the accompaniment of their instrument. Phichit's woodwind is called a pi na (though it seems there are a lot of different sub-types of those??) I honestly picked it bc I thought its sound/playing style would integrate well with the shamisen. I'm really curious about traditional Thai music now...
> 
> if y'all wanna correct me on things, I'd be happy to listen! I tried to keep in the spirit of a fairytale and be vague, but it's not in my nature. but certainly there are gaps in my knowledge and research.


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